What we had on our hands

by Marie-Helene Bertino

I said to my brother there’s a woman swimming in the saloose.
Where. He raised his hand against the bay’s light.
I pointed.
She was going in and out of the water. I lost her in the sun then she was back.
Stupid. He kept digging.
I watched for another moment then I kept digging, too.

Excuse me, a voice said. We looked up and both of us blinded.
She was naked except for unsexy underwear. She held her breasts in her hands.
My brother told me later I stepped behind him like the summer we saw a bat make epileptic circles above us. He stared. Even at 14, not a boy who looked away to save a
woman’s feelings.
They took my clothes. She used her head to point to the water. Boys, I think.
My mother and father out of the house. What is going on here?
They took my clothes.
My mother back into the house.
My father looked at a terracotta pot like he was thinking of planting.
My brother laughed. The woman said it’s not funny.
My mother came back with a sweater that had buttons shaped like barrels. The woman put it on. Her underwear was wet. Her eyes took longer than her neck to change positions.
Who can we call said my mother.
No family the woman said. My keys were in the clothes they took.
She buttoned the sweater wrong. She seemed more naked than before.
My mother said there must be someone.
The woman said there is no someone.
My mother’s hands worried the end of her shirt.
I said why were you swimming in the saloose?
She looked over the bulkhead where the water was blinking. It looked cool.
But the saloose is sewer water I said.
You have a nice family. Her breast was out.
My father stepped in front of me. Go home.
Getting dark and too far to walk.
That’s not our problem.
She was taller than him. Nice people would ask me to dinner.
My father to my mother: call the police. He held out his arms, anticipating quick
movement. Justine, in the house.
I said no.
We could hear my mother on the phone, explaining.
The woman sat on the dirt. I just wanted to swim and those assholes took my clothes. She stared at me. She was slow or injured.
My father’s fingers around my wrist pulled. I went into the house. I watched
from the window, fascinated and bored. I poured a glass of iced tea then the police were there. They pulled by her arms. She yowled. Her underwear came down when they
carried her. I heard her crying. I drank my iced tea.
The car pulled away.

My brother banged into the house. What we had on our hands was an es-cap-ee!
Escaped from where I said and he said he didn’t know.
That woman that day, she opened me.
Chicken and rice for dinner.

Contact Marie at marie@one-story.com.